in steps to the house。 I stood on tiptoes； saw nothing behind the window but shadows。 Twenty…five years earlier； I had stood behind that same window； thick rain dripping down the panes and my breath fogging up the glass。 I had watched Hassan and Ali load their belongings into the trunk of my father s car。
Amir agha； Farid called again。
I m ing； I shot back。
Insanely； I wanted to go in。 Wanted to walk up the front steps where Ali used to make Hassan and me take off our snow boots。 I wanted to step into the foyer； smell the orange peel Ali always tossed into the stove to burn with sawdust。 Sit at the kitchen table； have tea with a slice of _naan_； listen to Hassan sing old Hazara songs。
Another honk。 I walked back to the Land Cruiser parked along the sidewalk。 Farid sat smoking behind the wheel。
I have to look at one more thing； I told him。
Can you hurry？
Give me ten minutes。
Go； then。 Then； just as I was turning to go： Just forget it all。 Makes it easier。
To what？
To go on； Farid said。 He flicked his cigarette out of the window。 How much more do you need to see？ Let me save you the trouble： Nothing that you remember has survived。 Best to forget。
I don t want to forget anymore； I said。 Give me ten minutes。
WE HARDLY BROKE A SWEAT； Hassan and I； when we hiked
up the hill just north of Baba s house。 We scampered about the hilltop chasing each other or sat on a sloped ridge where there was a good view of the airport in the distance。 We d watch airplanes take off and land。 Go running again。
Now； by the time I reached the top of the craggy hill； each ragged breath felt like inhaling fire。 Sweat trickled down my face。 I stood wheezing for a while； a stitch in my side。 Then I went looking for the abandoned cemetery。 It didn t take me long to find it。 It was still there； and so was the old pomegranate tree。
I leaned against the gray stone gateway to the cemetery where Hassan had buried his mother。 The old metal gates hanging off the hinges were gone； and the headstones were barely visible through the thick tangles of weeds that had claimed the plot。 A pair of crows sat on the low wall that enclosed the cemetery。
Hassan had said in his letter that the pomegranate tree hadn t borne fruit in years。 Looking at the wilted； leafless tree； I doubted it ever would again。 I stood under it； remembered all the times we d climbed it； straddled its branches； our legs swinging； dappled sunlight flickering through the leaves and casting on our faces a mosaic of light and shadow。 The tangy taste of pomegranate crept into my mouth。
I hunkered down on my knees and brushed my hands against the trunk。 I found what I was looking for。 The carving had dulled； almost faded altogether； but it was still there： Amir and Hassan。 The Sultans of Kabul。 I traced the curve of each letter with my fingers。 Picked small bits of bark from the tiny crevasses。
I sat cross…legged at the foot of the tree and looked south on the city of my childhood。 In those days； treetops poked behind the walls of every house。 The sky stretched wide and blue； and laundry drying on clotheslines glimmered in the sun。 If you listened hard； you might even have heard the call of the fruit seller passing through Wazir Akbar Khan with his donkey： Cherries！ Apricots！ Grapes！ In the early evening； you would have heard azan； the mueszzin s call to prayer from the mosque in Shar…e…Nau。
I heard a honk and saw Farid waving at me。 It was time to go。
WE DROVE SOUTH AGAIN； back toward Pashtunistan Square。 We passed several more red pickup trucks with armed； bearded young men crammed into the cabs。 Farid